Turn Around, Bright Eyes
by dancingloki
Summary: Letting go of the past is a lot easier when you've got someone you love to make the present wonderful.


"…I had a date."

The world's too loud. It's big and it's bright and it's like being back in a war zone, with the noise and the shouting and it's overwhelming and his head is spinning. He lets them take him by the arm—he hadn't even realized his balance was wavering—but he was, he was unsteady on his feet, he realizes that now so he lets them hold his arms—_it's okay, they're soldiers, I can trust them_—and lead him over to the big black car.

_Weird_ big black car. Something's seriously off about it, the _shape_ is all wrong and unfamiliar and _strange_, but he recognizes it for what it is and wherever they want to take him cannot _possibly_ be worse than here. Here is loud and bright and frightening, ten times more so because this is New York, it's _home_, it's supposed to be normal and comforting and familiar and instead it's alien and alienating and _different_ so he lets them usher him into the backseat without a fuss.

The car starts moving. The guy who told him he'd been asleep—who seems to be in charge of things—sits next to him and talks. His voice is steady and deep and should probably be soothing, but Steve's too out of it to feel anything but lost. He keeps it together long enough to hear the man tell him that they won the war before he zones out completely; that voice keeps droning on in the background, but Steve's a dead man walking. Sitting. His eyes are open and he watches the lights go by outside the window. If he really just slept for seventy years, how can he be so _tired_?

They pull up outside some kind of bland-looking office building which turns out to house some sort of secret government base, through which Steve is lead in a fugue. He remembers next to nothing of it, rooms and hallways passing him by in a blur. They drop him off at a sterile, bland examination room. Finally, something familiar; the plain taupe walls, the bed set reliably at an uncomfortable height, even the gaudy posters on the walls were exactly like the dozen rooms he'd sat in before, waiting for another doctor to come in and tell him he wasn't good enough to serve his country. Shouldn't be comforting, probably, but it was.

So he sat there, dazed. A string of nurses came and went, bringing in tests or syringes or little pills for him to take, and leaving with pages of hand-scribbled notes or blood samples or empty paper cups they crumpled into the trash. After a while, the nurses stopped coming and he was left alone, so he sat there with his hands folded in his lap and waited for something to happen.

After a while, he heard voices in the corridor. The boss guy again—he'd heard a soldier call him Director—and somebody else. Somebody…_calm_. All the other people he'd seen so far had this forced calm, like they were trying _so_ hard not to let him know how freaked out they were, but this voice was different. Calm, a _real_ calm, with this peaceful, placid quality to it that made Steve feel…safe. He felt like whoever had that voice was someone with a handle on things, someone competent, someone reliable. Whoever the voice was, he was giving Director a very firm and serious—though polite and respectful—piece of his mind.

"I told you it was a mistake."

"What do you want, a medal?"

"I _told_ _you_ it would backfire."

"We were _trying_ to break him in to the idea slowly."

"I understand that, Director, but I warned you when you came up with this mess that he wouldn't like being lied to. And did you really think a trick like that was going to work on him?"

"Yeah, yeah. You were right, get off your high horse."

"Honestly, we're lucky nobody was seriously hurt."

"Phil, just drop it." _Phil. His name is Phil. Good name. Solid_.

"Yes, sir." A long pause went by, in which Steve felt the first twinge of nerves and an intense wish that the voice—Phil—would talk again.

He got his wish. "I really think I should have been there when he woke." Director groaned. "I'm serious, sir. I think I would have been able to handle it. Better than the agents on the scene did, at least."

"What did you want me to do, _drug_ him 'til you got there? Be reasonable. We had no way to predict when he would wake up."

"But we knew he would, and instead of keeping me on hand, you shipped me off to Russia."

Director sighed, annoyed. "You only missed it by a couple of hours. And the Russian operation couldn't have been delayed."

"You could have sent someone else."

"You _know_ we couldn't trust anyone else with an insertion that delicate."

"The Black Widow doesn't need handholding, she can insert herself."

"Well, it's water under the bridge now, isn't it. Look, are you gonna fix this, or what?"

"I'll go in and talk to him, of course, but I can't promise anything."

"I know. Just do your best."

"Was that ever in question?"

Steve heard quiet chuckling and then one pair of footsteps echoing down the hallway and fading. He looked up as the door to the examination room was pushed open.

"Captain Rogers?"

Phil matched his voice perfectly. He was an unassuming man in a plain black suit, not distinctive in any way, the kind of man you'd pass on the street without looking twice at; but he had kind eyes and a gentle smile and a serene air about him that made every muscle in Steve's body relax.

"I'm Special Agent Phil Coulson from S.H.I.E.L.D." Steve gave him a little wave and mustered a half-hearted smile. "I imagine you're feeling pretty disoriented right about now. A lot of questions, am I right?"

"You could say that, yeah," Steve muttered.

"Okay." Phil gestured to the armchair next to the examination bed. "Mind if I sit?"

"No, please," the soldier said hastily, stretching one hand out towards the chair.

"Thanks." Phil's smile widened, reassuring. Steve felt a little more of the tension ebb out of his body at the way the corners of the man's eyes wrinkled up when he smiled. "So, where do you want to start?"

"Well…" Steve exhaled. "That guy, the Director—"

"Director Nick Fury. He's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Commander."

"Your boss?"

"That's right." Phil nodded, encouraging him to keep talking.

"And S.H.I.E.L.D. is…"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We're an organization founded to protect the free world from threats that more…traditional guardians aren't well equipped to handle."

"And you do what, exactly?" Steve wasn't trying to be nasty, he _really_ wasn't, but he was getting pretty sick of cryptic and this was the one guy he'd met since waking up who seemed like he wouldn't sugarcoat things.

"Intelligence gathering and law enforcement, mostly. We handle any superhuman threats that show up."

"Superhuman? Are you serious?"

"I wish I wasn't. You were the first-ever superhero, Captain. Your existence changed things. A lot of people tried to replicate Doctor Erskine's formula, with a pretty crazy variety of results. Add that to the extraterrestrial threat, and—"

"Wait, extraterrestrial? Like _aliens_?"

"Yeah. A few of them had a little family feud over in New Mexico not too long ago, nearly destroyed a small town between them. They're _officially_ friendlies, but you'd better believe we're keeping them on threat watch."

"Wow. That…wow."

"Tell me about it." Phil's smile had turned resigned, commiserating.

"So…" Steve took a deep breath, trying to come to grips with it. "So Director Fury, he said I was asleep for seventy years. Was he…is it true?"

"Sixty-six, to be exact. It's 2011, Captain."

"_God_." Steve buried his face in his hands.

"Captain…" Steve looked up, shocked by the genuine heartbreak in Phil's voice— "I'm so sorry."

"I know, it's just… I'm sorry. It's just that all my friends, all the people—everyone I knew, they're all— I had a date, you know? I'm never gonna see her again."

"I'm so sorry, Captain," Phil murmured.

"It's not your fault," Steve said absently, but Phil was still talking: "Please, Captain, you can't—not you—please, _don't_—" his voice broke on the last word.

Steve stared at Phil, mystified. _Don't…don't what_? He was horrified to see tiny beads of moisture building around the agent's soft eyes. Instinctively, he reached up to swipe at his own face, then stared disbelieving at the salt water dripping from his palm. "Huh. How 'bout that," he said with a surprised laugh, holding out his hand to show Phil how wet it was as more tears ran down his face.

"Captain…" Phil's voice was _agonized_, and it was more than Steve could bear.

"I'm—it's all right. I'm fine." He smiled bravely and wiped his eyes on his t-shirt. "It's just a lot to take in."

"I understand that." Phil was a little hoarse, but composed. "I want you to know that all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s resources are at your disposal. If there's anything we can do to help you adjust, please let me know—I'll see to it personally."

"Thanks." Steve smiled, self-conscious.

Phil was smiling back. "In the meantime, I think the nurses are done with you. We've got some rooms set up for you back at our headquarters, I can take you there. Do you have any other questions right now?"

"Not really…" Steve stood up, flexing his shoulders, sore from sitting; Phil rose as well. Steve smiled down at the smaller man, amused to see a good six inches between their heights. "I guess I'm just sort of wondering, where do I fit in?"

He followed Phil out into the hallway. "You said I've got rooms at your headquarters, but…what's next? I don't know where my place is in the world anymore. Is there—do I still have a job to do? Do we even still have an Army?"

Steve grinned, pleased, when Phil chuckled. "We do, yes, but I think your enlistment ran out quite a while ago."

"Yeah, I figured." Steve laughed along. "So, what, then? What do I do now? The war's over now, what am I supposed to do?"

"There'll always be bullies," Phil answered, voice ringing with certainty. "And people will always need protecting from them."

"I guess you've got that right," Steve nodded. "…Wait. How did you know about that? That was how I got into all this, you know. It's why I wanted to join the Army, why I signed up for the program; I said that to Doctor Erskine the first time we met, that I can't stand bullies, how did you—" Phil was practically squirming. "Agent Coulson? Phil?"

"I'm sort of… Oh god," he muttered, rubbing his neck with one hand. "I'm kind of a _really_ big fan of yours." Steve was stunned—and, oddly, kind of delighted—to see that he was blushing bright red. "Look, don't laugh, okay? But I— I've looked up to you pretty much my whole life. You were—I mean, you **are** _Captain America_. You stood for absolutely everything about this country—about the _world_—that I wanted to fight for; justice, honesty, courage, compassion…"

Phil cleared his throat self-consciously. "I even have your trading cards, you know, from back in the day. When they found you in the ice…well, that was a pretty big day for me. Finally getting to meet your hero, there's…there's not many people who get that chance."

An awkward silence followed Phil's confession. Steve was dumbfounded, trying to wrap his head around the notion of _anyone_, much less this confident, reserved man, even _remembering_ him. _Admiring_ him? Being _inspired_ by him? It was almost too much to believe. For his part, Phil was staring at his feet, the sky, the curb, the building façade, anywhere but Steve.

At length, Steve spoke. "I don't—I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Phil rushed to insist; "I shouldn't have mentioned it, I just—"

"No, no. It's an honour, really. Although I'm sure I didn't do anything to deserve it. I'm not a hero, I'm just a kid from Brooklyn who tried to do the best he could. I just…" He twisted his fingers together. "I don't want to let you down."

"You won't," and there it was again, that note of absolute, ironclad faith in his voice that after knowing him only half an hour still made Steve want to trust _anything_ this man said. "There's no way."

They stood on the street corner, staring at each other. Phil seemed content to just stand there and _look_ at him, and Steve was too busy trying to figure out why it didn't make him self-conscious to be self-conscious.

A car pulling up to the building drew their attention from each other. Steve looked at his feet, feeling a delicate blush heating his cheeks, and instinctively reached for the car door to hold it open for Phil.

The ride to the base was silent, but comfortable. Steve was surprised to feel a surge of warmth in his gut every time Phil glanced towards him. He didn't think too deeply about it, though. After the roller-coaster he'd been through; fear and grief the last thing he remembered before hitting the ice, and then waking up, when he never _expected_ to: shock, betrayal, adrenaline, confusion, _more_ grief, and the comatose feeling of the emotional crash—well. If having someone be kind and comforting and _explain_ things in plain speech and look at him like he _meant_ something left him with a happy, fuzzy buzz that reminded him pleasantly of what it felt like to be drunk, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

When they got to the base, Phil showed him to his room—or _rooms_, he should say. It was a small, plain apartment, three rooms decorated in a simple, familiar style (Phil pointed out with a quiet pride that he'd had some "design input"): bedroom, bathroom, sitting room. He told Steve how to get to the kitchen (apparently they're open 24-hours). He showed him how to work the telephone (Steve savoured the quiet thrill of how impressed Phil was with how quickly he it picked up). He told Steve about the gym and how to get there (_also_ open 24-hours). He lingered.

Eventually, he ran out of reasons to stay, and excused himself. Steve refused to think about the hollow feeling in his stomach when the modest agent let himself out; he was too tired and overwhelmed. He practically fell into bed, sinking into sheets far softer than anything he was used to, and slept without dreaming.

He woke early the next morning; the clock on the wall pointed to just past six. Steve rose and stretched, putting off thinking what the day would bring by diving straight into the calisthenics the Army had taught him. He had worked up a nice sheen of sweat and was breathing hard when a knock at the door caught his attention.

A glance to the clock put the time at a quarter to seven. Steve wiped the sweat from his face as he opened the door.

Phil was smiling sheepishly on the other side. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, not at all," Steve panted, smiling. "I was just…startin' the day right, I guess. I spent sixty years slacking off, I gotta get back into shape." He got his breathing under control. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, I just…" Phil was blushing a little. "I thought you might like to have a little company for breakfast, seeing as how it's your first day up."

"I'd love that!" Steve agreed hurriedly. "Just let me get cleaned up."

"Take your time," Phil said mildly. Steve grinned and rushed for the shower, snatching a clean shirt and sweatpants from the dresser on his way. He was out back in five minutes, damp and beaming. Phil was sitting relaxed at his writing desk, smiling absently at the wall.

"Ready to go?"

"Whenever you are." Phil stood up. "Oh, you've got some…" He stretched a hand automatically towards Steve, pulling back suddenly when he realized what he was doing.

"Huh? I've…what?" Steve babbled, flustered.

"Nothing, there's soap, behind your—"

"Damn, that's—"

"Here, I'll—"

"It's, it's okay, I can—"

"No, not there, further—here—"

"I'll just—"

"Captain, please." Phil reached out slowly with one hand, gently wiping away the soapsuds from the side of his neck. Steve stood transfixed at the touch, holding his breath, heart beating rabbit-fast. Phil looked just as frozen, his hand lingering motionless.

After a long, breathless moment, a sudden flash of shock and embarrassment flitting across his face. Phil yanked his hand back as though burned, clearing his throat, his face flushed. "Sorry, I…sorry—"

"No, it's—I mean—"

"I was just—"

"It's—did you, um, did you get it?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah." Phil coughed uncomfortably.

"Well, um…Thanks." Steve fidgeted with his hands; Phil shifted from foot to foot and looked at the ceiling. Steve cleared his throat. "So, shall we?"

"Yes. Of course. Let's—it's this way."

Steve smiled timidly and followed Phil down the hallway, shutting the door behind them. The mess hall was another comforting familiarity, much like many he'd sat in before; they filled their trays and found an empty table, chatting over scrambled eggs and bacon.

Steve pelted Phil with questions, the man's readiness to talk encouraging him. In no time, he was filled in on the big-picture history of the years he'd missed, several times getting pulled off into tangents over pop-culture trivia.

Phil's patience seemed endless. Their plates were long empty, but Steve pretended not to notice; he didn't want the meal to end. Well, if he was being honest with himself, he just didn't want Phil to leave.

Unfortunately, the mess hall staff spoiled things for him. The guy who cleaned the tables was getting more and more aggressive with his rag, swiping tables closer and closer to where they were sitting, until Phil gave a resigned sigh.

"I think we're in the way, Captain. We should probably leave them to their work, they need to start getting the room ready for the lunch rush."

"Oh, y-yeah." Steve tried his best to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but Phil gave him a knowing smile anyway.

"How about we continue this conversation while I give you a tour of the base?"

"Really?" Steve beamed, hope flooding his face.

"Sure, why not."

Steve followed the inscrutable man out of the mess. "Are you sure you don't mind? I'm sure you've got some important agent stuff you should be doing."

Phil shook his head. "I don't have anywhere to be, actually. Technically, it's my day off. I usually just spend the time catching up on paperwork, but this seems like a lot more fun."

"Oh, gosh," Steve mumbled, "I didn't mean to take up all your free time, you don't have to put yourself out just for me…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Captain," Phil said, turning and giving him his signature half-smile. "A day hanging out with my childhood hero? Nowhere I'd rather be."

Steve chuckled, bashful. "Well, if you're sure, then thanks, I'd love that."

The rest of the day passed, for Steve, in the same pleasant blur as breakfast had. Phil lead him around from place to place, introducing a string of people all eager to shake his hand, answering every question and keeping up a running commentary.

The control room was particularly impressive. Steve was introduced—properly this time—to Director Fury. They didn't stay there long, though; just long enough for Steve to shake Fury's hand and make enough small talk not to offend him, before Phil was ushering him back out.

"Sorry if I was rude," Phil grinned after they had made their escape. "I just wanted to get out of there. Day off or not, if I hang around too long they might start asking me to _do_ things."

Steve laughed aloud. "Well, we can't have that."

Their laughter mingled and echoed, turning heads up and down the corridor. Phil shook his head, still grinning. "Come on, I'll show you the gym."

Nightfall, predictably, came too early, and Steve found himself back outside his room, trying to figure out how to say good night to Phil without sounding like a complete idiot.

"So, um… I-I had a great time today."

"I didn't wear you out?" Phil asked, seriously.

"No, no, not at all," Steve hastened to reassure him. "It was just what I needed, and I learned a ton. Thank you, really."

"It was my pleasure, Captain."

"Please, call me Steve."

"If…if you insist." Phil turned beet red. "It was my pleasure…Steve."

"Will I see you around tomorrow?"

"If you're out and about, I'm sure we'll run into each other. Barring a major world catastrophe, I should be on-base all day."

"Swell." Steve hovered awkwardly for a moment. "Well, good night, then."

"Good night." Phil made to walk away, then turned back suddenly. "Hang on, I just remembered something." He fished in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "I, um, I got this for you."

He handed Steve a small hardback book. Steve cracked it open and leafed through the pages, only to find every one blank. He looked up at Phil in awe; the man looked nervous, incredibly so for one so staid.

"It's a sketchbook. I remembered reading—I mean, they put out a biography, a book about your life, and they had some interviews with people who knew you—some soldiers from the 107th, even some people from your team, that you fought against Hydra with. And they mentioned that you used to draw, so I just thought—it's nothing special, it just occurred to me on my way home last night."

"Phil, _thank you_." Steve was overcome at the strange, quiet man's considerate gesture. "This means so much to me, you have no idea. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." Phil stared straight into his eyes for a moment before looking away, suddenly awkward. "I should get going. You get some rest, it's been a long day."

"It sure has," Steve agreed with a good-natured grimace. "I'll see you around tomorrow."

"Good night," Phil said again, and he was gone, striding off down the hallway. Steve watched his back for a long moment before turning into his room.

It was a little while before he actually went to sleep. Some of the time was spent pondering the day, all the things he'd seen and the things he'd learned; the world had changed, pretty radically, from what he was used to. The rest of the time…well. If the sketchbook he left on his desk when he headed to bed was no longer blank, and if the first page held a simple drawing of an unassuming face with a gentle smile and kind eyes, no one would know.

The next day began the same way. Steve woke up around six and plunged into his morning workout. He showered and dressed, not _quite_ as quickly as yesterday, and keeping one ear out for a knock at the door. After a quick check for soap, he headed out for breakfast.

He ate quickly, head down and lost in thought, still running through the wealth of information he'd mined from Phil the day before. After he finished, he cleared his tray promptly and left, avoiding the glares from the guy he'd inconvenienced the day before.

When he got to the hallway, however, he stopped, lost. He didn't need Phil to hold his hand, he _didn't_. But nobody was lining up to tell him what to do, and he really had no idea what he was meant to be doing, so after a moment he came to the conclusion that he would just have to find something to do by himself.

He started by wandering the halls in search of…he didn't know what, exactly. He wound up sticking his head into a variety of strategic meetings about complicated operations in countries he'd never heard of. Steve didn't think he contributed much, but everyone was welcoming. The questions he asked quietly to the least busy-looking people were answered briefly and competently and without giving him the feeling like he was in the way, which was gratifying. And once he even ventured to give a strategic opinion which was not only considered by the room, but actually redirected the flow of conversation around the table.

Overall, he counted the morning a success. A ham sandwich and a glass of milk later, he found himself heading upwards, trying to remember where Phil had showed him the control room. _I can't keep poking in to the little meetings_, he justified to himself. _Those people are _specialists_, they don't need me bumping around interfering and asking dumb questions while they're trying to manage their missions. I can find something more helpful to do if I can get a look at the big picture, see where I fit in_.

The fact that the control room was where he was most likely to bump into Phil again had absolutely _no_ bearing on his decision. No, really. None at all.

The control room was no more packed than it had been the day before, but it was a lot more intimidating than it had been with Phil's steady presence at his side. Steve skirted around the edge of the room and pretended he wasn't scanning the crowd of people for a certain face.

Eventually, he managed to insert himself in a discussion about the drug trade in South America. He was pleasantly surprised to find that his experience with Hydra applied pretty well to the mess there, and even _more_ pleasantly surprised to find the trend of people actually listening to what he had to say continuing.

Of course, he wasn't too engrossed to miss Phil coming in, or the way the room dynamics subtly shifted to center around him. Steve stood for a while watching him talk, calmly controlling the flow of people around him so that each individual he brushed elbows with bustled off with sharp and focused purpose.

He got a nudge in the side from the agent on his left, and hurriedly retrained his concentration on the discussion he'd gotten involved in. But he couldn't help risking a glance every minute or so to keep an eye on what Phil was doing, and eventually he caught Phil looking back.

Their eyes met only briefly; Steve waved, just a tiny motion of one hand, and Phil nodded at him and then turned immediately back to his business. Steve would have been disappointed, except that as the other man turned away he saw a blush spread across the back of his neck and that cute half-smile Steve had figured out he mostly wore when he was trying not to let on how pleased he was over something.

_Wait, _cute_? Where the heck did _that_ come from_?

Steve put the kibosh on _that_ train of thought pretty quickly. He kept his head down and his brain set on South American drug cartels, and before he knew it the clock had turned over to seven and his stomach was growling.

A hand on his back made him look up, startled. Phil was standing right behind him, his entourage dispersed. Steve spared himself a moment to marvel at how smoothly the agent transitioned from the most commanding presence in the room to completely unassuming, unnoticeable.

"Captain. Finding your sea legs?"

"How many times am I gonna have to ask you to call me Steve?" The soldier smiled, feeling a warm glow spreading through his stomach. "I thought I'd get out in the world a little bit. I've been poking my nose into meetings all day until something stuck."

"And you wound up in South America?" Phil raised his eyebrows, teasing.

"Well, I didn't know the first thing about it _before_ I went under, so the years I missed aren't doing me any harm," Steve joked. "It's interesting. This whole 'war on drugs' wasn't a thing back in my day."

"You were probably more worried about the war on the Axis, right?" Phil joked right back, nudging Steve's arm with his elbow.

"You got it." Steve was grinning. "I gotta say, though, I'm doing better than I thought I would. My squad might have been _officially_ Army, but we used a lot of guerilla tactics, and it applies to this insurgent stuff pretty well."

"Well, it's good to see you jumping right into it." Phil's smile was small, but with an element of pride. "We were pretty worried you'd have trouble adjusting."

"_You_ were?" Steve asked. He tried to sound like he was kidding rather than anxious; he wasn't entirely sure he succeeded.

Phil smiled at the floor. "Not me personally, no. Mostly the Director. That whole show when you woke up was his idea, you know. He thought you'd have some challenges adapting to the future. I told him it was stupid, you'd think by now he'd listen to me."

Steve laughed softly. "You'd think."

There was a brief silence. Phil cleared his throat. "So. Are you hungry?"

"Starving, actually," Steve admitted.

"Join me for dinner?" Phil offered. Steve grinned, nodding, and followed Phil out of the control room. "I'll admit I was hoping for a second chance," the agent continued as they walked. "I felt a little bad about yesterday."

"_Why_?" Steve asked, mystified. "You gave up your whole day just to help me out."

"Exactly," Phil said ruefully. "I spent the whole day talking your ear off. I was hoping that maybe today I could convince you to do a little talking, instead. I'd _love_ to hear more about you, about the war, your squadron; there's only so much about you the biographers could get their hands on, and all the files are kind of…impersonal."

"Um, sure," Steve mumbled. "What do you want me to—what files?"

"Well, Erskine's program, the Scientific Strategic Reserve, they kept records. So did the regular Army. S.H.I.E.L.D. sort of inherited a lot of it, since it mostly falls under our purview anyway, and I took the liberty of requisitioning the rest. Fueling my hobby, so to speak. I mean, not that you're a hobby. I was just curious—I mean, I'm not saying that you're a curiosity—I was—it's just that your life was so fascinating—oh God but not in a creepy stalker way, I mean I thought you were dead, so—I'm just going to stop talking."

"It's fine, Phil. I know what you meant," Steve said with an amused smile. "It makes sense they'd have been keeping records. I guess I just wasn't thinking about it in those terms." His brow furrowed, then cleared. "So, you wanted war stories?"

This time, he made no effort whatsoever to suppress the thrill in his gut when the concern faded away from Phil's face to make room for a beaming smile. "If you don't mind, I'd love some."

"Well." Steve felt a matching grin start to spread. "How much do you know about the 107th?"

He started with the story of how he got into the war for real, helping the 107th get away from Hydra, and let Phil lead him from there. Dinner went by in a blur, Phil egging him on shamelessly; Steve found himself laughing, completely at ease, trying to keep finding more and more ridiculous and impressive stories to tell, to top himself and keep that awed, adoring look on Phil's face.

"…turns out he was holding the compass upside down and we marched sixteen miles in the _wrong direction_! We're neck deep in mud, right. Jim still can't walk so Gabe's got him slung over his shoulder and he's _bitching_ so loud I thought for sure he'd bring down every patrol in the quadrant right on our heads, and it's _just_ started raining. And then Bucky—Bucky, he goes—" Steve shook his head, laughter overtaking him.

"What? What? What did he say?" Phil was rocking back and forth, his eyes shining.

"He says, '_Funny, it's never done that when _I_ tried it_!' "

"He _didn't_!" Phil howled.

"He did! He really did!"

The two of them collapsed into hysterical laughter, leaning on the table and on each other as everyone in the room stared at them. Steve wiped his eyes. "I seriously thought Dum-Dum was really going to kill him that time."

Unfortunately, time does indeed fly when fun is had, particularly for those who don't have fun in their lives very often. Before they knew it, it was nearly ten o'clock, someone had wondered why Phil wasn't in the control room running the entire free world, and an intern was dispatched to tap him on the shoulder and usher him back to business.

"Steve, I'm so sorry. I've got to go take care of this thing—"

"No worries," Steve said, getting to his feet as Phil did. "I should probably get to bed anyway. Will I see you tomorrow?" Steve winced internally. _I really hope that didn't sound quite as needy outside my head_.

"If all goes well," Phil smiled at him; if he sounded needy, Phil didn't seem to mind. "I'm in and out of the control room all day tomorrow, so I'm sure we'll run into each other."

"Looking forward to it," and Steve was getting _really good_ at this "not thinking too deeply about why I'm doing and feeling what I'm doing and feeling" as he watched Phil leave the room with a deep, inexplicable sense of loss.

That night, Steve woke up around 2 A.M. with his heart pounding from a nightmare where all his old friends aged and died in moments right in front of his eyes. Peggy was the last to go, her hand stretched out towards him but crumbling to dust just as he reached for her fingertips.

In the morning, he was more tired than he'd been the day before, but he still rolled out of bed at six o'clock on the nose to start his daily workout. He grabbed a quick breakfast, just like yesterday, but headed straight to the control room this time, inserting himself into the same group as before, who had already started work (and looked like they might never have stopped).

Nobody seemed bothered by him keeping his own hours, though, and they eagerly folded him into the discussion. Phil was there already, too, but he didn't seem to notice Steve coming in, and he sure as heck wasn't going to interrupt the man's work. Steve did keep an eye on him, though; trying to be as sneaky as possible, of course. He was indeed in and out of the room, as promised, all morning, and Steve did his best to quell the mild anxiety he felt whenever Phil was out of his sight.

By half past noon, he'd come to the decision that setting himself a routine—some _constants_ in his life—would generally be a good thing. 12:30 seemed like an appropriate time for a lunch break, so he made a note in his mental schedule, then made his excuses to the group.

Phil materialized out of nowhere as he was on his way out of the control room. "Capt—Steve. Day two going all right?"

"Keen," Steve smiled, agreeably. "I was heading to lunch, you hungry?"

Phil's face lit up. "I think they can spare me for half an hour. Try not to start any wars while I'm gone," he called over his shoulder as they left, to the general amusement of the room.

"So it seems like you're settling in all right so far, then." he commented, as they sat down at what Steve already privately thought of as 'their' table in the mess.

"Mostly," Steve replied half-heartedly. Phil frowned.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No, I—yes. Nothing. It's stupid."

"Don't be ridiculous." Phil leaned in, concerned. "Steve, what's going on? You can tell me."

"All right, but it really is stupid. I just…had a bad dream last night," Steve said with a little self-deprecating smile.

"What about?" Phil asked, earnest.

Heartened by the other man taking him so seriously, Steve told him as much detail as he could remember. "It was awful," he said, shuddering. Seeing them _collapse_ like that—and then Peggy—I mean, I've lost soldiers before, even good friends, but that kind of—and the _smell_, I didn't even know you could smell in dreams, it was so—"

Another tremor ran through his body, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world that Phil would reach out and take his hand. "You're in mourning, Steve," he said quietly. "You lost a lot more than time while you were in the ice. All the things—the _people_—you lost in that interval, it's got to be hard for your mind to reconcile them dying years, even _decades_ in the past when you saw them just a few days ago."

"So my brain gives me horrible nightmares to, what? Get me used to the idea that they're all dead? Punish me for outliving them?" He'd meant that a lot less bitter than it came out.

"You need time, and you need to let yourself grieve." Phil's tone brooked no argument. "This sounds to me like it's equal parts shock, loss, and survivour's guilt. If you're throwing yourself into work to avoid dealing with this—"

"I'm not," Steve rushed to assure him. "I'm not. And I need the routine, I'll go crazy if I don't have something to do all day."

"All right." Phil sounded dubious, but he didn't push it. "But if you need to talk to someone, I can arrange it. We have some good people."

"I'd rather just talk to you," Steve said quickly, then blushed. "Oh God, sorry. I mean—please, don't feel—_obligated_ or anything, I just meant—" Phil was smiling. Steve ducked his head. "I think I accidentally imprinted on you. Like a baby duck."

That pulled a surprised laugh, and Steve laughed right along. "Seriously, though—you don't mind?"

"Not at all," Phil said decisively. "Actually, here—" and he began rooting in his pockets. Steve watched, confused, as he fished out a scrap of paper and a pen, scribbling down a few numbers before handing it over.

"What is it?"

"You remember how I showed you modern phones work?"

"Sure," Steve agreed uncertainly.

"Well, that number is for my personal cell phone. I'm not always on-base, but I always have my cell with me, just dial 9 first if you're calling from one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. network phones. We'll get you your own cell in a couple of days, I'll take care of it. You can call me any time, day or night, if anything happens, or you just need someone to talk to."

"Oh," Steve said, softly. Then: "Thank you."

"It's the least I can do," Phil said, reaching out to take Steve's hand again and give it a reassuring squeeze. They sat quietly for a moment, before Phil cleared his throat and took his hand back. "I really should get back to—yes, I know, I'm _coming_," the last to the hapless intern who'd been sent again today to fetch him.

Before walking away he reached out, put one reassuring hand on Steve's shoulder. "Don't hold back. Promise me you'll call if you need to."

He held Steve's gaze until he nodded, then smiled and walked away. Steve didn't feel he contributed much during the afternoon and evening, getting lost in his thoughts several times, but nobody seemed ready to criticise him for it.

Come dinner time, Phil was nowhere to be seen, so Steve joined a couple of the agents from his chosen team, and sat and chatted with them instead. It was a pleasant meal, though it did remind him a little too much of nights on the town with his squad during the war. He thought about calling Phil to tell him that, but in the end decided not to. Although he had meant the promise he made, calling before even twelve hours went by seemed a little excessive.

Over the following months, Steve followed his routine with devotion, improving it wherever possible. He moved his morning workout to the gym, training himself on weights and punching bags instead of just calisthenics. He hopped from group to group as he felt himself needed—and occasionally, was invited to join when his experience was wanted.

He also spent an embarrassingly large amount of time trying to figure out Phil's schedule. The reserved agent didn't seem to have one; the days he'd show up in the control room, and how long he'd stay there, seemed completely random. Steve didn't bother to ask where he went and what he was doing. He may have described himself as a baby duck, but that didn't mean he was going to follow Phil around like one.

Sometimes even days passed without seeing him. Those were the worst, for Steve, but he buckled down and kept working and once in a while when it hurt too much and the world got too scary he'd call Phil, sneak out of whatever meeting he wasn't contributing to and dial that number. He always picked up, every time. It wasn't much—just five, maybe ten minutes—but it was enough to hear his voice.

They ate together, too, for whatever meals fell when they were in the same room. They spent the time talking, sometimes Phil keeping Steve updated on the world, but more often Steve talking about his recent-yet-distant past and the things and people he missed. Phil listened to everything, laughing at the right times, sober at the right times, always compassionate, always attentive; and if he had tears in his eyes when Steve hit a rough patch, neither of them acknowledged it. The time always went too quickly, and before they knew it someone was tapping Phil's shoulder—or occasionally even Steve's—to pull them back to the world.

As the time went by, Steve could feel himself accepting, healing, letting go. He found his smile coming easily—now, even for people who _weren't_ Phil. Little by little, the ache in his chest ebbed away as the sketchbook he kept by his bed filled, page by page. Steve sketched some faces he remembered from his past and some that he'd met and befriended in his present but most of all—Phil.

Phil looking straight out of the page, his face intense and serious. The back corner of his head and shoulders, his jaw set, capturing the focus Steve marveled at when he watched him work. His face turned sideways, looking off at something only he could see, wearing that mysterious catlike almost-smile that was nearly always on his face. The charmed, adoring look he only wore when he thought Steve wasn't looking.

Steve put a name to the way Phil made him feel.

After lunch one day, Phil pulled Steve aside. Probably no one else would have been able to guess that the agent was nervous, but Steve was learning his tells, and anyone else would have been practically vibrating with nerves.

"Listen, I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure," Steve agreed genially.

"I've got another day off tomorrow. I thought we might…I mean, I've sort of got a day planned. If you're interested, would you like to…" Phil trailed off, blushing red.

"Two days off in three months?" Steve teased. "Does Director Fury know you're getting so spoiled?"

"Well, I doubt he'll mind. I haven't taken a vacation in about six years, despite his best efforts." Phil smiled. "So would you care to join me?"

"Is it my day off too?" Steve asked, hesitant. "Nobody's given me any kind of, of—schedule, or anything, I mean I'd love to but I don't want to get anyone in trouble…"

"I'm pretty sure you can take time off whenever you want," Phil said, shrugging. "Captain America can set his own hours as far as I'm concerned." He gave Steve a pleased-with-himself half-smile.

"Then in that case, it sounds great." Steve was beaming. "You want to drop by my room tomorrow morning?"

"Sure." Phil looked like he couldn't believe his luck. "Sounds good, I'll see you then."

"Oh, you won't be around tonight?" Steve tried to sound casual instead of disappointed. He wasn't sure he pulled it off.

"Unfortunately not," and Phil really did sound like it was unfortunate. "There's some things heating up in Bolivia and a terrorist cell of radical neo-Nazis I've got to keep an eye on, so I'll be out of the office for the rest of the day. I'll see you tomorrow, though."

"Bright and early." Steve gave Phil's arm a friendly clasp before heading back to the control room. He would have expected the butterflies he was feeling in his stomach to interfere with his concentration, but apparently his good mood had the opposite effect; he was so on form for the rest of the day that when he finally called it quits, it was to a chorus of voices urging him to stay just a little longer.

The next morning, he skipped his workout, instead spending the time fussing over his clothes. Steve felt a little ridiculous doing it, but somehow looking nice felt important, like something he should care about. He wound up in blue jeans, a simple checkered buttondown that he had it on good authority showed off his shoulders well, and his brown leather bomber jacket. He was adjusting his shirt collar for the sixteenth time and debating finding a tie to wear when a knock came at the door.

Phil was on the other side. He was wearing the same unremarkable dark suit he wore every day, and Steve immediately felt a little silly for stressing over his clothes. He quickly brushed the feeling to one side, smiling broadly.

"Morning!"

"Good morning." A faint blush coloured Phil's cheeks. "You ready to go?"

"I think so. Any soap?" He craned his neck sideways, grinning. Phil's blush deepened.

"I think you're good. Shall we?"

Steve followed him out in the hallway, surprised to find them heading upwards when they reached the elevator. "Where, uh—so where are we heading?"

"To the roof."

"…Okay."

They rode in silence, muzak filling up the empty spaces. Steve would have been anxious, but Phil looked so pleased with himself he couldn't be worried, somehow.

As promised, the elevator doors opened to the roof. Steve followed Phil out onto the helipad through the winds that whipped over the top of the building, trying to keep the sudden trepidation off his face.

His nerves got worse as they approached the door to a strangely-shaped aircraft. He followed Phil through the open hatch and up to a woman in a dark flight suit, who smiled broadly as they came up to her.

"Ca—Steve, this is Lieutenant Colonel Maria Lin, the pilot. Colonel Lin, Captain Steve Rogers."

"Maria, please," she said, extending a hand. Steve shook it.

"Steve. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." She turned to flash the same toothy grin at Phil. "You two give me a shout when you're situated, we're cleared for takeoff whenever you're ready."

Phil thanked her, and she headed off towards the cockpit. He turned to Steve, his trademark half-smile disappearing when Steve didn't wipe the nervousness from his face quickly enough. "What's wrong?"

Steve gave him a half-hearted smile. "We're, uh…we're flying, huh?"

Phil's face was awash with concern. "Would you rather drive? The Quinjet is the fastest way to get around, but if you're not comfortable…"

"No, no, I'm fine. It's just that the last time I was in a plane it didn't end so well for me. And I still don't know where we're going." Steve poked one finger into Phil's elbow.

"Washington, DC." Phil placed his hand on Steve's shoulder, reassuring him. "It's a four hour drive, but we'll be in the air for less than half an hour. And Col Lin is an _extremely_ competent pilot, the best in the fleet."

"She did seem pretty confident," Steve agreed, encouraged.

"She should. Flying's in her blood. You know her grandmother was in the WASPs, back in World War II?"

"No kidding!"

"Yeah. Test-flew B-29s out of New Mexico. One of the best in the whole program."

"That's pretty incredible. I met a few of the WASPs, they were some seriously skilled pilots. If she takes after her grandmother, I guess we're in good hands." Steve sat down, smiling up at Phil, his former good humour and excitement returned in full.

Phil took a seat across the aisle, calling up to the pilot. The ride was easier than Steve was expecting, after the loud, shaky prop planes he was used to. He could barely tell they were moving at all, and they were touching down before he knew it.

"Welcome to scenic Dulles International!" Maria emerged from the cockpit, still grinning cheerfully. "Good flight?"

"Great," Steve answered. "Is it always so smooth?"

"This time of year, yeah. Hurricane season, not so much, but I can handle it," she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. "Agent Coulson, I got control on the wire during our approach, they've got a car waiting for you on the tarmac."

"Excellent, thank you." They followed her out into the late summer sun. A simple black sedan was parked nearby. Steve was getting more and more curious, but he held in his questions and sat quietly in the passenger seat as they headed into the nation's capitol.

When the car slowed to a stop, he recognized the long rows of smooth, white stones.

Steve stared at the man in the driver's seat, completely at sea. "Phil, this is…Arlington National Cemetery, right?"

Phil nodded, his face giving nothing away.

"Okay…interesting choice for a date." Steve realized what he had said a split second too late and barely managed to stop himself from slapping a hand to his face. He opened his mouth to apologize, to take it back, but shut it again, blushing bright, violent red. For better or for worse, he'd meant it, and if Phil hadn't meant this to be a date he could correct him, but he wasn't taking it back.

Phil just smiled.

"Come with me. I want to show you something."

Steve followed the calm, steady shoulders down the rows of headstones, nearly bumping into the agent when he stopped short. He couldn't see Phil's face, but he saw him take a deep, measured breath, bracing himself before he turned around to face Steve, his face worked up to a serious resolution that made Steve more than a little nervous.

"So…what did you want to show me?"

Phil took another deep breath. "It's…it's her gravestone." Steve froze in place.

"You…you mean…Peggy?"

"Yes." Phil swallowed. "Steve, I want to tell you something. I'm not very good at this, and I'm not used to—to speechmaking, but I—I want to get this right." He cleared his throat.

"You already know how much I—how big a fan I was of yours, before you—before we met. I mean, I made enough of an ass of myself, right, with the trading cards and everything?" He gave Steve a small, self-deprecating smile; Steve grinned and tucked his head.

"But meeting you. Actually meeting you, in real life…" Phil stared at the sky. "Before I met you, you were…a symbol, to me. An idea. You were like…like a legend, larger than life, not a real person. And then you were _there_." His eyes found Steve's face.

"You were _living_. Breathing, and _talking_, and you were so—so _alive_, so _real_. I read these books, and they talk about how old you were, and the missions you went on and how many lives you saved and how many Hydra bases you destroyed, and none of them, not a single one, ever told me how blue your eyes were."

He took a half-step forward. "They're so bright, Steve. The brightest shade of blue I've ever seen. And you have this, this sense of humour that just—and the way you _think_ about things—" he broke off, frustrated. "You're so much more than I ever expected. When we found you in the ice, I was a fan, you knew that. You were my hero, my idol; I believed in what you stood for and I admired what you had done. But now I _know_ you."

Steve could see tears building in Phil's eyes. "Being your friend, getting to know who you really are instead of just some abstract concept, has been—more rewarding than I ever could have expected. I don't know anyone else who could have done what you've done. Waking up in a strange place, after everything you've lost, and not just dealing and adjusting, but doing the same thing you've always done. Jumping both feet into a fight, no hesitation, to do whatever you can to help people. I want to tell you how much I admire you, not for Captain America, but for who you are—for the man I've gotten to know."

Steve felt like his heart was so full it was going to burst in his chest. He stared at Phil in awe as the man continued. "I wanted to do something for you. Not—not to repay you, not that I ever could, for all that you've given me. But because you're my friend, and you're a, a great man, and I want you to be happy.

"So…I brought you here."

Phil took a deep breath before speaking again, warm, wet brown eyes boring into Steve's face. "Agent Carter. She…she requested to be laid to rest here, when she died. It was a little irregular, since she was actually English, but she'd spent so much time serving with our troops she wanted to be interred with them."

He gestured with one hand down the row. "She's down there. I…I know how much you've regretted never being able to see her again. Things happened so suddenly, and you never got the closure you deserved. I know this is a pretty poor imitation of the real thing, but it's all I can offer you. I thought you might…want to say goodbye." Speech finished, he stood silently, waiting for Steve to react.

Steve moved, as fast as he could, closing the gap between them in a few short strides. He grabbed Phil's face between his hands and kissed him.

The agent was shocked at first, his whole body frozen under Steve's hands; but immediately relaxed, melting against his chest. His hands wrapped around the front of the blonde's leather jacket as he opened his mouth, kissing back with an intensity that surprised and thrilled them both.

Acting purely on instinct, Steve ran his tongue over the curve of Phil's lower lip, swallowing the soft moan that resulted. His hands were sliding down the sides of the smaller man's neck to his shoulders, pulling him tight into Steve's chest, then slipping lower.

Steve's hands slid lower and lower; when they reached Phil's behind, the agent tensed up, rigid against him. At the feel of the sudden tension in Phil's body, Steve's brain caught up with recent events and he jumped backwards, yanking away from Phil's grip.

He stood rock-still, his mouth hanging open and eyes blown wide, for a split second before he started panicking in earnest. He spun in a circle on his heels, flailed his arms around, sputtered and stammered, looking everywhere but at Phil.

"Oh, oh God, I didn't—that wasn't what I—Phil, I'm not like that, I'm not that kind of guy, I'm really not, I would never—_never—_I'm so sorry—I just, I got carried away, I—" He broke off with a groan and turned away, burying his reddened face in his hands, utterly humiliated.

After a brief silence, a voice came from behind him, in the same calm, soothing tones that had eased his fear and panic the first time they met.

"Captain. Steve. Look at me."

Steve shook his head.

"Come on, Steve, look at me. Please."

He heard Phil chuckle, felt a soft hand on his back. "Turn around. Let me see those bright eyes."

Steve groaned into his palms, mortified, but he turned. He let Phil pull his hands down away from his face, but kept his eyes scrunched shut as tight as he could get them.

Gentle fingers caressed his forehead. "Please, open your eyes. I want to see those baby blues. It's all right, everything's fine. Great, actually. Just look at me, please."

Steve's eyes fluttered open. Phil had a calm, contented smile on his face that wiped all Steve's embarrassment away. Steve started to grin hesitantly. "I, um…I panicked?"

"I have no idea _why_. I thought I made it pretty clear I was on board." Phil raised his eyebrows, and Steve started to laugh.

"So, I'm an idiot."

"You are, a little," Phil murmured. "You can touch me, Steve. Wherever, whenever you want. I like it. I like _you_."

He ran his hand through Steve's hair, across the back of his head to rest lightly on the side of his neck, strangely mirroring that first touch between them so many months ago. This time, however, Steve had no hesitation about leaning into the agent's hand. Phil's smile widened just a hair, and he smoothed his thumb over Steve's throat before wrapping his hand around the back of his neck and pulling him gently forward.

The kiss he placed on Steve's mouth was gentle and chaste and sweet. Steve could feel thin lips curve up into a smile pressed against his own, and he sighed with contentment as Phil's arm wrapped around the small of his back.

They stood there for just a moment, kissing softly, until Phil stepped back, releasing him with a sigh of regret. Steve smiled down at him, feeling vague and stupid and utterly at peace, a warm buzz of pure happiness vibrating under his skin.

"Thank you, for this. You're right, I—it never sat right. It means a lot to me that you thought of this, giving me a chance to say goodbye."

Phil smiled, blushing. He nodded his head to one side.

"Go ahead. I'll wait here."

Steve grinned, clasped Phil's shoulder briefly before heading down the row of smooth gravestones. When he found her name etched into the white marble, he crouched down, running his fingertips over its surface.

"Hey, Peg." He smiled sadly to himself. "Guess it's my turn to make a speech, huh?

"I miss you. _So_ much. I've thought about you every day, ya know that? Since I woke up, every day. You were—so amazing. You made me a better man, just by trying to be like you every day. I really loved you. Part of me still does, I guess a part of me always will. But I'm—I'm letting go of the past. And…"

He glanced over his shoulder. Phil was standing staring at the sky, hands folded in front of him in the classic 'Agent on standby' pose; Steve smiled fondly.

"I love him. He's a swell guy, Peggy. A real swell guy. You'd have liked him, I just know you would. And I…I think he loves me too. Well, I guess he wouldn't've thought of doing something like this if he didn't."

Steve bent forward, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. "I guess I'll always wonder what woulda happened. If just one thing had been different…we coulda got married, had kids, won wars and grown old, all _together_. Even if we didn't do any of that…" He rocked back on his heels, shaking his head.

"It shouldn't have ended that way. Even if it hadn't worked out with us, we should've had the chance to try, not gotten ripped apart so suddenly. I'm sorry. I sh—" His throat closed up, but after a moment he forced the words out. "I shoulda made that date. But I'm gonna live, Peg. I'm gonna work, and fight, and love, 'cause I know you would want me to. You had a whole life after I crashed, and I'm gonna have one too."

"Heck, maybe I'll even make Phil teach me to dance." He straightened up, grinning and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I'll…I'll see ya round, Peg. Thanks, for everything. Mostly for believing in me."

Phil became suddenly very self-conscious when Steve approached, fumbling with his hands as if he didn't know what to do with them. Steve chuckled quietly and reached out, catching one of Phil's hands and twining their fingers together.

Phil smiled up at him. "Good talk?"

"The best." Steve leaned down to kiss him gently. The heat of Phil's mouth on his held a promise for more to come, and Steve broke away feeling sated and warm all over. "Could we come see her again sometime?"

"As often as you want. We can track down some of the others, too, if you want," Phil said agreeably as they strolled back towards the car.

"I'd like to do that sometime," Steve nodded. "What are we doing for the rest of today?"

"What do you feel like doing?"

Steve grinned. "Well, there was this swell little diner in Brooklyn, where I grew up. I used to get beat up in the alley behind it. We could go see if it's still there."

Phil laughed. "That sounds fantastic. I'll phone Colonel Lin to meet us back at the airport."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of diners and delis, parks and streets and old movie theatres. Steve showed Phil all the things he could remember from his childhood, and they explored together all the things he didn't recognize. Phil didn't let go of his hand once.

Evening came altogether too soon, and found them standing outside Steve's room. "Do you, um…do you want to come in?"

Phil wavered, but shook his head. "Another time," he said ruefully. "I don't want to rush this."

"Yeah, three months is really diving into things," Steve grumbled half-heartedly, then sighed. "Sorry. You're right."

He dipped his head for a brief kiss, and came up smiling. "We've got all the time in the world. I will see you for breakfast tomorrow, though, right?"

"Of course," Phil reassured him. "It's a date."

"A date, huh?" Steve teased. "I like the sound of that. A date it is. Seven o'clock, right on the nose, and don't you dare be late."

Phil rolled his eyes and reeled him back in, and they stood there getting lost in each other. Steve's head was swimming; his whole world seemed to have shrunk down to the taste of Phil's lips, the soft sigh of his breath.

Everything else became…fuzzy, indistinct; the noises of the building faded away, then the gentle sounds from Phil's throat, then even the sound of their breath. He was dizzy, everything felt distant; he pulled away from Phil but couldn't see his face clearly; the fabric under his hands melted away from his touch, and everything around them was—was ill-defined, bleeding into white at the edges, Steve couldn't see anything clearly. What happened that morning? Steve couldn't remember…it was something important, there was…an airplane? And he'd had a conversation with someone, about something important, but…but what had they talked about?

And who… There was someone there, someone important, someone Steve had loved, why…why couldn't he remember their name?

And where had the walls gone?

There was a deafening silence, and he felt like he was floating.

Steve opened his eyes.

The radio was playing, a baseball game he'd already seen, and a dark-haired woman was smiling at him. He tried to remember—what had he been dreaming about? It was something important, someone he—someone he loved, what had it—

The woman was talking, saying something about a recovery room, but Steve wasn't really listening; he'd just remembered a name. "Phil."

"I'm sorry, I…who?"

"Phil, Phil—something. Where is he?"

"There's no-one by that name here. Why don't you just—"

"Stop lying to me. I know this isn't real."

She hesitates. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Steve's voice is soft and deadly. "This game. It's from May, 1941. I know 'cause I was there. Now I'm gonna ask you again. Where's Phil?"

"Captain Rogers—"

He's shouting now. "Who are you?"

Men in dark uniforms burst through the door. He throws them and he's running, running through loud, bright, frightening streets, strangely-shaped cars honking at him and he doesn't know where he is and there's these vehicles penning him in and a strange man talking to him—

A man he almost recognizes, like someone he saw in a dream before. It's not much, but it's enough to get his focus, just that tiny bit of familiarity. He's talking.

"Look, I'm sorry about that little show back there, but we thought it best to break it to you slowly."

Steve's a little scared, but he's also pretty angry and he's holding it together—whatever _it_ is. He went into that ice not expecting to come out, but if he was going to, this sure as heck wasn't what he would have expected to find. He just knows he's gotta find Phil somehow, and he wishes he could remember _why_.

"Break _what_?"

"You've been asleep, Cap," the stranger answers him. "For almost seventy years."

Steve's head is reeling. Seventy _years_? **_Seventy_**?! How was that even _possible_? Wait, that's—that's right, that's why he needs Phil, Phil makes things make sense.

"Where's Phil?"

"Who?"

"Phil, I—I can't remember his last name, he was—he _is_—I don't know, he's just supposed to be here, isn't he? You—don't you know him, where is he?"

The man's poker face drops a little bit, he looks confused. "Sorry, Cap. Nobody else came with you. Whoever Phil was, he's seventy years older than the last time you saw him."

"No, no, he wasn't from—he wasn't from 1945, he's supposed to be _here_. You know him, I'm sure you do, everyone—everyone knows him, he was important…" Steve trails off.

"I'm sorry," the man repeats. "Musta been just a dream."

He lets Steve stand in silence, staring around, for a long moment before he speaks again. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I just…" Steve shakes his head, trying to clear it. "…I had a date."

...

...

_epilogue_

He meets some new people. He likes some of them right away. Others (well, one at least), he can't stand at first, but grows fond of.

There's a war—_another_ one. Funny how something seventy years ago for everyone else can be just a few weeks ago for him. He fights this war, too. They win.

After, he goes off on a road trip, on a motorcycle, seeing the whole country, the way he always wanted. He sees sights, takes pictures, makes friends with strangers. He tries all the new foods he can get his hands on, learns three different kinds of ways to dance. He scans every crowd for the face that fills the hardback sketchbook he bought himself, but he just can't find Phil _anywhere_.

Eventually he comes back home to New York. His team's all there, and they fall into a comfortable, easy friendship, of the sort involving unplanned movie Saturdays, which he enjoys.

He doesn't always pay attention, though. This week was Tony's turn to pick, which meant something with more explosions than dialogue and a plot that could be completely summed up by the word "violence," so Steve zoned out a little bit, yeah. His sketchbook was more interesting anyway.

He was so completely focused on where the pencil met page, where its tip caressed the smooth line of a soft face, that he didn't notice the film ending, or hear Natasha approaching.

"Steve, we were going to go out and get a couple of drinks, are you in?" She noticed the book in his hands and leaned over his shoulder, craning her neck for a better look. "Drawing again, huh? He's cute."

The face on the page was an older one, balding, but confident, steady, with strong, lively eyes and a secretive half-smile. "Who is he? I don't recognize him…someone you knew back in the forties?"

"Oh, he's just…" Steve shifted in his seat. He couldn't seem to look at the drawing that had held him so enraptured moments before. "Nobody. Just my imagination, I guess."

"Huh. Well, it's nice. I like his eyes."

Steve coughed. "Yeah, me too."

"Anyway, you coming?" Without waiting for an answer, she straightened up, following the rest of the group out of the room. He set the notebook down gently on the table as he stood. The half-finished drawing stared sightlessly into empty air with kind eyes.

Steve brushed the page lightly with his fingertips and whispered:

"He's nobody."

_Once upon a time I was falling in love_

_Now I'm only falling apart_

_There's nothing I can do_

_A total eclipse of the heart_

...

A/N: HAHAHAHA PSYCH YOU THOUGHT THEY WERE GOING TO BE HAPPY TOGETHER BUT IT WAS ALL JUST A DREAM ALL ALONG

HAHA

ha

oh god I am a broken shell of a human being please someone put me out of my misery


End file.
